


Sentimental

by Ololon



Category: The Culture - Iain M. Banks
Genre: Special Circumstances (The Culture Series)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 17:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ololon/pseuds/Ololon
Summary: The recent good Culture fic has motivated me to dust off and repost this little piece, that was languishing on my computer. Just a little thinky piece set post-Matter. Note major spoilers for the ending of Matter!Djan Seriy Anaplian and her escort drone Turminder Xuss must come to terms with what has happened.





	Sentimental

**Author's Note:**

> Did I mention the spoiler for the ending of Matter? I meant it!

** Sentimental **

****

 

> “I think Turminder Xuss is going to miss you,” Batra said…
> 
> Anaplian shook her head. “The machine grows sentimental,” she said.
> 
> “Unlike yourself?” Batra asked, neutrally…
> 
> “I have always been sentimental,” Anaplian claimed.
> 
> _\- Matter,_ Iain M Banks.

 

Sometimes, she tries to imagine what her death had been like. Instantaneous, is the answer that comes to her mind; her pragmatic mind, her realistic mind. Instantaneous – apart from all that went before. She thinks she may have been quite calm: she is usually quite calm. Resolved; certainly. Afraid; definitely. But she had done it anyway, that other self, that former self, and, in those moments when she is most honest with herself, she will admit to a quiet pride in that. Proof, once again, that she could be as good as her brothers, as any man – yes, it _was_ that old childhood chip on the shoulder – nevertheless, that she, too, was brave. They all had been. Even – especially – unlikely Ferbin – dear, poor Ferbin – and Xuss, of course.

In the sagas of heroes she had grown up with, a deed such as hers would be the substance of legend and song – a way to outlive death; to be remembered and revered down the ages. She does not long for such glory anymore; she is not a child. The quiet pride remains though. Her deeds remain all but unknown in the lands of her birth, but in the Culture the story has rippled out in a wave as if her – instantaneous – death were a cast stone, weighted down with its own sense of responsibility. She does not like it. Surely, any one of SC’s agents would have done the same. Probably many ordinary citizens would have, no matter that she has castigated their frivolity at times. She does not enjoy her brief attention, but she knows it will pass. Some new story will catch their attention. The Minds in the group that – ultimately – oversee her remain vexed at her willful independence – much as (it amuses her) her father was – but with far greater reason: they _do_ know better. And they are, nonetheless, quietly proud of her. If, naturally, unsurprised.

They had suggested a holiday when her new body had been grown, and the copy of her self that she had left behind downloaded into it. She had refused, which surprised them even less, she suspects. She is best getting on and doing something, but there is a problem.

She does not _know_ what happened: this is what irks her, niggles at her like a missing tooth that the tongue insists, futilely, on prodding. She had no opportunity to talk to Holse before he returned to Sursamen, and the avatar Hippense died too, of course. There is _some_ information. They had – with cautionary advisement – shown her the recordings that existed from the _Liveware Problem._ It is only those last, fatal few hours that are lost. Gone forever, as death always is. She has not asked, but she knows Xuss saw it too. The knife missile which it had copied its mind to was retrieved; it was damaged beyond repair, but the mind state was recovered. How much it was able to observe, remains an unanswered question.

She has some concerns about the drone. It had been unusually sombre when they were briefly re-united.  _Their machines are not always rational,_  she thinks to herself.And it _did_ ask for a holiday. She had not asked it of it’s own experience, it’s own death. Instantaneous, she supposes, apart from all that went before. And instantaneous is still a long time to a machine. It only tells her, in one unguarded moment, that she was _magnificent._ It is proud too, but not of itself.

The GCU _Too Much Information_ informs her that Xuss is on indefinite leave, that it has concerns, that she may wish, at least temporarily, to have another escort drone, if she wants to return to duty. Xuss does not respond to her queries. She asks the ship what is wrong with it. The ship says that Xuss feels a sense of failure. That it can not deal with its own helplessness in those last moments. She replies that this is absurd, that a fully armed warship would find a Xinthian no small matter to defeat, that Xuss must surely know this. _Yes,_ the ship says, simply. Their machines are not always rational. It has never been quite so apparent before. She tells the ship she will wait.

Reluctantly, she tracks the drone down to an Orbital, where it is staying with an old friend from its Contact days. They don’t talk about what happened, not at first. It tells her it may take a break for a long while. That it may retire. They don’t talk about what happened; not at first.

One night, as she is watching the grandchildren of Xuss’s friend dive and play in the pool, shrieking and laughing, she dares to ask.

“What do you think you felt, at the end?” Thinking how exhilarated it had been before, as they went into action, wondering what could have changed it so badly.

“Fear,” it answers, shortly, and she does not ask any further. It does not specify what fear; not, she suspects, of death. She had always known it to be fearless; there was, indeed, very little for it to fear. The children seem fearless too, as Culture children generally do. Three boys and a girl, like her and her brothers, all gone now. But then, they used to laugh and play like that, too. Where she came from death was expected, frequent, often premature and often horrible. Seldom instantaneous. It was usual to lose siblings. It was usual to _lose,_ to grieve, for people gone before their time. And to carry on, because you had no other choice, and it happened to everybody. The Culture does not have this. Death is rare, it is almost always painless, almost always actively and happily chosen. Never a nasty surprise for anyone. Even those in her risky line of work die seldom. Usually, anything a human SC agent cannot handle, their escort drones can. And there is usually a ship within dashing distance of rescue. It’s been an eon since they last had a war, and anyway, they are used to winning.

She has always thought them sentimental. She realises that this is a true judgement. They _are_ sentimental. They can afford to be. Death does not steal wantonly, cruelly, from them. She had thought it was a weakness. If it is, it is one she now shares. Perhaps she has truly become one of them, after all. When she leaves, she tells the ship she will not accept another escort drone.

So she goes on leave. She falls in love, truly, perhaps for the first time; with all the possibility of loss and the fear that it brings, the pain. She has a child and loves again, differently, more than she ever felt possible. Her daughter is three when Special Circumstances calls. The possibility of fear is all the greater. But children do not die here. She goes, assured of a safety that is good enough for her to believe in; no more dragon-slaying for her, not for now.

The drone meets them at the docks. Her daughter naturally smiles at it; she is a Culture child, after all. With the girl perched on her hip, Anaplian reaches for her suitcase, automatically.

“Allow me,” Xuss says, hefting it easily. There is an undercurrent of humour to its tone, and she directs a knowing look at it. She had always known it was brave.

Sometimes, she speculates on her death. Most often, though, she thinks on all that has gone before. If Xuss thinks the same, it keeps its own counsel. She is less curt with it than she used to be, less closed-off; well, she is far too out of practice. It indulges her daughter outrageously; plays with her. But it hovers now precisely three centimetres closer to Anaplian than it used to before. It is completely irrational, but she finds herself touched, nonetheless. They have both grown sentimental, after all.


End file.
